


lies do not become us

by koedeza



Series: apocalypse, you say [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Psychic Sam Winchester, a multi-chapter fic but i try to do it right, be prepared for emotional distress i suppose, hbo-show level gore, i took ALL the creative liberties with this one, im a thot for parental figure!dean, kings of reckless behavior, metric fuck ton of nosebleeds, once again this is sad, these poor guys are just trying to live, this isn't horror there are just monsters here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:40:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28371015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koedeza/pseuds/koedeza
Summary: “Why hasn’t it stopped? You’re not doing that anymore,” Dean tries not to let the desperation creep into his voice, but it’s useless.When he looks at Sam, really looks at him, he sees a painting slowly losing color. He sees his little brother losing himself to whatever’s been using him up. He sees eyes the color of ash, and he sees blood that’s too dark, too thick, too much.Sam meets his eyes. “I think... maybe it wants something,”
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: apocalypse, you say [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2048558
Comments: 7
Kudos: 22





	1. of whispers and sharp things

**Author's Note:**

> So originally this was going to be another entry in my little series of snapshots for this AU but then the words just didn’t stop coming and now it’s a multi-chapter fic!!
> 
> You don't need to read the past entries in this series to read this, but the basic premise of the AU is the Winchester's live in NYC and fight monsters while the world is mostly falling apart. I'm not sure how well this lends itself to the style of the other entries but I guess it doesn't really matter. I tried.
> 
> i am a student so even though I try my best to update every weekend please keep in mind it's not always possible.
> 
> edit: sam is 17 and dean is 21. their canonical birthdays probably don't line up with the rough dates i mention but whatevs!!  
> I present to you HBO Winchesters as coined by @glowingsamulet:

**prologue.**

“Truth or dare?” Dean whispers.

Sam’s mouth is open, a row of crooked teeth on display. “What’s more convenient?”

“You’ll lose either way,”

“Truth,”

Dean digs into his coat pocket for a lighter, but his fingers find a hole instead. He looks back up. “I heard looks can kill. Is it true?”

Slowly, Sam nods.

Dean grins, eyes flashing dangerously in the dark.

**1.**

Careful fingers peel away tin foil, eyes still watering from the smoke. He frowns.

“It melted.”

From out of nowhere, a hand smacks him upside the head. “Of course it melted you dumbass.”

Sam ignores the jibe. He inspects the chocolate bar, wondering whether they should wait for it to harden again or just eat it now. “Anyone else in there?”

“Just us. The shapeshifter’s dead,” A shadow settles itself onto the pavement, eyes reflecting the burning red and orange behind Sam. “Its eyes were burned out. And there was some nasty black shit coming out its nose.”

Sam looks up and smiles at his brother.

Dean’s wearing _that_ look, the one that’s two parts adrenaline and one part unabashed vainglory. His clothes are dusted with ash and soot, pants ripped at the crotch from when he had to jump off the burning stairs down to the ground floor. The soles of his Reebok’s are a little melted, but Sam doesn’t know if that’s from the fire or from how often he uses them to put out cigarettes. His hair is singed.

“Jesus,” Dean growls, looking at the rip in his jeans. “These were new.”

By new, he means stolen from an abandoned apartment that miraculously hadn’t been sacked yet.

“You ok?” Sam asks, watching Dean massage his knee.

“Yeah,” Dean stops, feeling Sam’s gaze. “Might need to hunt for some more codeine, though. And pants. You?”

“Just a little bruised.” Sam sniffs at the chocolate, mouth watering at the smell. “This still seems edible.”

“Sick,” Dean scoots closer and Sam rips apart the tinfoil, handing him his melted half.

They sit in the middle of an empty street in Williamsburg until the chocolate is gone.

**2.**

They watch, eyes following the basketball game as if either of them has any idea what’s going on. Dean knows the basic premise, _get the ball in the hoop_ , but he’s never understood the intricacies of most sports.

His eye twitches as he glances at the corner of the street, catching someone who is so obviously in the wrong neighborhood. The man strides past with expensive attire, a clean face, and shiny shoes before ducking into an alley.

That’s Dean’s cue.

“Alright, man. My pants situation is getting a little ridiculous. I should go,” Dean hops off the picnic table, wincing when his right leg hits the ground.

Sam eyes the duct tape holding Dean’s jeans together, seems to consciously ignore his grimace. “We could pull some cash together, buy you a new pair. I have a job lined up at the docks next week, you’d just have to wait a little bit.”

“Nah. With what we do? They’ll get fucked soon enough.” Dean pulls a cigarette out from his coat pocket. “Stop being so generous, little brother.”

“Whatever,” Sam mumbles, troubled eyes turning back to the game.

“Hey,” Dean lightly kicks Sam’s shoe. “Buy Jess some flowers or something. Don’t show up empty-handed.”

Sam nods absently patting the pocket where his money’s always stashed, but Dean knows when he’s been ignored.

**-x-**

Saturn pushes his glasses up. “My provider died last week. This is the last of it you’re going to get.”

“Yeah,” Dean nods and examines the bottle in his hands, rattling the pills around. It’ll tide him over for a little while at least. “Thanks.”

“I wouldn’t count on finding anymore else in the city. Shit’s getting worse by the hour.” He says it, and Dean knows he doesn’t just mean the drug scene. The city _is_ getting worse, monsters crawling out of places that were once pinnacles of safety.

The dealer runs a hand over perfectly gelled hair, glances over Dean’s shoulder at the mouth of the alley.“But… I have something else.”

Dean’s mostly broke, but he can’t deny his curiosity.

“I’m closing up shop, so to speak, so... I’ll give it to you for free.” Saturn says, pulling something out of his coat. “Use less than a pinch when you dilute it. It’ll last months if used correctly.”

Dean hands over a crumpled wad of bills for the codeine and examines the contents of the baggie, the substance inside violently red. “How do I know it won’t kill me?”

Saturn raises his coat sleeve, showing off needle marks, then shrugs. “Throw it out if you want. No skin off my back.” He turns to leave.

Dean stashes the stuff inside his jacket and blurts something out before Saturn can walk out of the alley. “Can I ask you something?”

Saturn turns.

“You use a fake name, always deal in the most violent parts of the city...Why hide? Not like the cops would ever arrest you.”

The guy regards him with the beginnings of a scowl, but Dean sees an undertone of envy. Of what though, he’s not entirely sure.

“It’s not them I’m hiding from.”

“Ah.” Dean gets it. He starts laughing, but then stops himself, catching the other man’s expression. A world that’s turned practically lawless, and yet Saturn’s kind of people are still finding decorum to uphold.

It’s a sign, he thinks.

**3.**

The cemetery is shrouded in grey, but Sam finds it familiar.

The Motorola sitting in his palm is on its last legs, but Sam’s just grateful the thing still turns on. The phone is strictly for emergencies, but Sam feels a savage pull at his fingertips. He dials the only number in his contacts that still works, the only one he knows by memory.

The line rings then connects.

“Sam?”

“I’m at John’s grave.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Say hi for me?” Dean’s voice sounds distant, as if he’s extremely concentrated on something.

“Sure.” Sam wipes off the frozen dirt and runs a finger over the name, then over the words written beneath it.

_John E. Winchester. Someone somewhere is waiting._

Dean’s voice again. “Did you get flowers? Steal them at least?”

Sam doesn’t answer.

“When was his birthday?” His voice cracks, brain struggling to remember a date. He doesn’t remember much of John at all, actually. He’s not sure if it’s because he doesn’t want to or because he just can’t. Either way, he feels he’s doing him a disservice.

“Dad’s? Uh…I don’t...I don’t know Sam. We never celebrated it. I just know the year.”

“Oh.” Sam tries not to sound too disappointed. “I wish he’d taught us to play basketball.”

It comes out of left-field and Sam’s not really sure why he says it.

“Basketball? The fuck would you want to learn basketball for? If this is just another way of you telling me you’re taller than I am, then fuck you—” Dean starts laughing but Sam cuts him off.

“No. No, I was just thinking about all those times the neighborhood kids were out playing and we would watch from the window. Could never actually join them though, ”

Dean’s voice grows soft. “Dad knew what he was doing, kid.”

“...Sure. I know.” Sam sniffs. “Sorry to call. I’ll see you later.”

Gently, he snaps the phone shut and doesn’t let Dean say anything else. Limited data, and all.

 _Dad_. Dad _knew what he was doing_.

For a second, Sam grieves over the idea that their father never got a proper burial, body too mangled for there to actually be anything worth burying. He grieves over the idea that Dean’s always been the one to call him Dad, but Sam hasn’t done that in years. He grieves over the idea that all Sam and Dean will ever have is each other.

Someone taps him on the shoulder.

Sam whips around, seeing only an empty cemetery, only him and the damp gravestones. There’s no sign of the groundskeeper. He stands up slowly, pulls out a throwing knife, and slides it between his knuckles, crushing the bouquet of daisies he’s holding in his other hand.

His heart races, eyes scanning the frozen ground for tracks or footprints. “Hello?” He calls out, but the words feel empty. The cemetery stays silent, save for the whispering of the wind. Then, a sound.

Something whispers back.

**4.**

Dean pockets his flip phone then picks up the needle that sits on the coffee table. The liquid inside looks golden in the afternoon light. Enticing and promising of something. He flicks it once. Twice. Briefly wonders what kind of high this will be.

When he plunges the needle in, it doesn’t hurt.

Floating. Being held in someone’s arms, rocked and lulled until he’s floating on a still sea. Glinting steel and foreign blood don’t belong here. Sounds like wind working its way through windchimes, feelings like honey instead of sinew. Thick and sickly, sickly, sweet. Eyes the color of ash, skies that turn translucent. Drowning in colors that don’t exist, body broken and again and again, put back together until nothing hurts and everything is so very alive. Feelings, dust particles, fibers, all of them morphed until they all pulse in time with his existence. His hands grab at the stars, his mouth opens for the moon so that he can swallow it whole.

Something is taken from him, but he still lets himself sink into the warmth that trails sluggishly through his veins. It’s welcoming.

And he doesn’t let go.

**-x-**

Sam hears the voice before he sees the monsters.

Like a snake’s hiss but bolder, the sound comes from nowhere. First, an ask, then an answer.

_Sam...Sam...Samuel?_

He sees four creatures then, black, spindly, and foul-smelling, lumbering from out of the shadows. Sam recognizes the gravediggers almost instantly from how terrible they smell. They’re monsters that only lurk around when someone’s died nearby, but Sam’s sure they don’t hunt in packs, and he’s _very_ sure that there’s no fresh meat in the vicinity.

There’s only one empty plot in the cemetery and it’s already been claimed for future use.

_Do it...Sam._

Sam turns, looking at the eyeless beasts, searching for mouths that could produce such a human-sounding voice. Slowly, they begin to surround him, one blocking each exit, coming closer until they’re mere feet away from him. Sam pulls out more knives, bending his knees and getting ready to throw, but the time never comes.

_This time, Sam...I’ll do it myself._

Everything crescendos with the voice, sound building up until it all just…

Explodes.

Sam’s not sure how long it takes for him to come to, but when he finally does he finds he’s dizzy, head ringing and sand-paper tongue scraping against his lips. He tastes blood in his mouth and feels gravedigger remains covering him like a second skin. He lays on the ground until he feels he can stand up, breath coming in short bursts. After a few minutes, Sam pulls himself up with the help of a gravestone, legs shaking and teeth chattering. He sees the bouquet of daisies, crushed on the ground but somehow still intact.

Slowly, silently, _alone_ , he trudges home.

**-x-**

Sam closes their apartment door and lets his forehead gently hit the peeling wood.

Just for a second, he takes time to breathe.

It comes out more like a rattle than a breath, but he doesn’t care. His muscles burn with fatigue, back throbbing from when he got thrown against the gravestone. When he replaces the padlock on the door, his hands shake, key dropping to the ground.

He’ll pick it up tomorrow.

When he turns, he catches Dean’s sleeping figure sprawled on the couch. Even though his grip is tight on the moth-eaten blanket, his face is lax, features venturing into calm. That’s new.

In the dark, it’s hard to tell, but Sam can see his brother’s phone jammed between the couch cushions, screen blinking blue with the time. Sam sighs, then takes a deep inhale, plodding across the room. Blood drips from his clothes as he walks, and only when he finally drops to the futon on the ground does he get a whiff of how much he emanates the smell of rot.

He closes his eyes, hoping to hear of whispers and wind.


	2. of black and white

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freckles made of blood and snow. Tired eyes. A sardonic smile, the specific sound a knife makes when it’s being pulled out of an eyeball. It’s all highly characteristic of his older brother, but it’s like a puzzle with too many pieces. Something doesn’t fit.

**1.**

“Dude,” Dean pockets his zippo. “The apartment fucking stinks.”

Sam closes the bathroom door behind him and turns, scoffing when he sees Dean sitting at the kitchen table.

The smell of his lit cigarette wafts through the air, but it barely covers the stink of Gravedigger blood.

Before Sam can pull a shirt on, Dean pulls out one of the kitchen chairs and turns it around so the backrest is facing the table. “C’mere,”

Sam looks tired and surly, his silence louder than any words, but even exhaustion doesn’t dumb him down. They both know how dirty the city is, and know from experience how easy cuts and scrapes can get infected. While Sam heads over to the chair Dean grabs their first-aid kit from underneath the sink.

He snuffs his cigarette out on the sole of his shoe, then tosses it onto the table in front of Sam.

With a semi-trained eye, Dean inspects the damage.

Besides the bruising, there are five deep scrapes on Sam’s back, raw and red sitting right on the knobs of his spine. It looks painful, but they both know he’s had worse.

With a pair of tweezers, Dean carefully picks out the debris that Sam couldn’t scrape off in the shower, ignoring Sam’s occasional hiss. “Where were you?”

“At the cemetery. I called, you remember?”

Dean spreads antibiotic cream over the scrapes with a popsicle stick, trying to remember what he did last night. He finds that besides the unadulterated euphoria from Saturn’s drug he doesn’t remember much of anything. Falling asleep, maybe, but no calls from Sam. He’ll have to change the dosage if he wants to use the drug again.

He steers the conversation in another direction. “Right... So what’d you kill? No, wait, I’m asking the wrong questions.”

At least, Dean remembers waking up. As soon as he’d rolled off the couch he saw the bloody trail leading from the door to Sam’s futon, saw Sam’s blankets encrusted with dried blood. His panic was short-lived though, the pathetic spurting sound coming from the bathroom telling him Sam was at least alive enough to take shower.

“Done.” Dean runs a hand over the medical tape that keeps the gauze down, his first-aid skills smoother than they’ve been in weeks. “You’ll be fine. Just gotta keep it clean and dressed.”

“I know,” Sam slowly pulls his shirt on, voice far away.

Dean replaces the first-aid kit and takes a seat across from Sam, grimacing as the chair creaks, threatening to snap underneath him. They’re going to have to find a new one, but for now, Dean just prays that he doesn’t end up on the floor. He’s not sure his barely cushioned ass could handle slamming onto concrete.

He reaches for the coffee pot from the countertop, placing it in front of Sam and picking up his cigarette.

“I can tell you did some damage, man. The hell happened?”

“Gravedigger. I killed it. And before you ask, no, it didn’t attack me. I just…” Sam doesn’t bother asking for a mug and instead just drinks straight out of the pot. “I didn’t want it where John and Jess are.”

Dean relights his cigarette and mulls it over. Out of all the monsters they’ve had to face, Gravediggers are some of the most docile ones. They never attack unless provoked, and even then their defense skills are laughably bad. Sam shouldn’t have come out of the fight _that_ bloody or injured. Dean doesn’t question him further, feeling that he shouldn’t press.

All things in due time.

He cocks his head. “I hate to break it to you bro, but we’ve gotta throw your blankets out. They’re making the entire place smell like dead bodies and there’s no way we’ll be able to get the stink out.”

Sam glances at Dean, expression decidedly glum.

Dean tries his best to put on a smile. “C’mon. Dealer charged less for the codeine, so I have some extra cash. Let’s go to the junkyard, then we can get some hot dogs. ”

**2.**

“Jess would have liked this,” Sam says.

“Are you kidding?” Dean stares at the thing with thinly veiled disgust.

The plush rabbit in Sam’s hands flops over, dirty but surprisingly not moth-eaten. It must have been recently thrown out. Dean shudders thinking about whichever kid probably died, all their possessions thrown into a junkyard by mourning parents, or worse.

Sam stares at it for a moment longer. “I’m taking it.” He drops the trash bag full of bedding and blankets then stuffs the rabbit between his hoodie and Carhartt.

Dean scowls, stopping himself before saying something insensitive. In the month since Sam’s girlfriend died, Dean has been toeing the dangerous line between letting Sam wallow in his grief and slowly prodding him to move on. He looks at Sam now, sees the stuffed animal’s head popping out of his jacket, ears brushing at his chin. Something about it is painfully endearing.

Dean reaches a hand into the sleeve of his coat, fingers feeling for the fresh track mark. Before leaving the house he injected less than a fourth of what he used yesterday, but still, he feels the same. Nerves treacherously aware of all the aches and pain in his body, mind acutely present. He scrunches his nose and looks away from Sam, hand dropping out of his sleeve.

“Fine. Whatever. Take the damn rabbit, but just help me with this chair.”

**-x-**

They never get the chance to go for hot dogs.

The monsters descend from the towers of the Brooklyn Bridge, weaving through metal wires down to where Sam and Dean stand. Instantly, Sam fails to recognize what they are.

They’re massive, wings folded against their sides as they shoot like bullets down to the walkway, expanding again as they sweep past.

He barely has time to look up into the sky before the monsters are on the bridge’s walkway, moving faster than he can react to.

“What the _fuck_ -” Before Dean can finish his sentence one of the creatures slams him onto the ground. The chair that he’s holding flies through the air and a second creature smacks it against the railing, splinters, and chunks of wood flying in every direction.

Sam drops everything and dives out of the way before razor-sharp claws have the chance to rip him open. He flips over and scrambles backward on his elbows, just as one of the monster’s lands on top of him. Its talons press down on his rib cage so hard that he can’t breathe, hands barely getting the chance to reach inside his jacket. One of its talons rises up, ready to tear Sam open.

Sam doesn’t give it the chance.

The stiletto in his hand slides into the monster’s exposed chest with familiar ease. Sam twists, using the creature’s surprise as an opportunity to force it off with an elbow and roll out from underneath it. He scrambles to his feet as the creature topples over, eyes frantically searching for Dean. Before he can find him, another one of the monsters glides a few feet over the walkway, approaching so fast that all Sam can do is pull out more knives and throw. They all meet their mark, but the creature only speeds up, talons raking through the wooden walkway.

 _...Samuel, do it_ now…

He doesn’t think about what he’s just doing, he just _does_.

He extends his arm, palm parallel to the ground, eyes locked onto the creature.

Its eyes are completely white, save for the red veins running through them.

Sam hears a sharp whine, an almost human scream, and then the creature just drops. Its momentum makes it collide with the ground then sends it tumbling, until it rolls to a stop at Sam’s feet. Sam stares at it for a second, cocking his head.

 _Good_ … _Now you know..._

Then, Sam crumples to the ground.

**-x-**

The first time it happens, Dean’s so high he misses the entire thing.

Sam sits, back leaning against the walkway railing, and watches out of the corner of his eye.

Freckles made of blood and snow. Tired eyes. A sardonic smile, the specific sound a knife makes when it’s being pulled out of an eyeball. It’s all highly characteristic of his older brother, but it’s like a puzzle with too many pieces. Something doesn’t fit.

“Hey.” Sam pushes himself off the railing and moves forward, the ringing in his ears coming and going. “Hey!”

“About time you woke up,” Dean says with stupid nonchalance, shaking hands already reaching for a cigarette.

“Do you have any idea what just happened?” Sam ignores his oncoming headache and strides past Dean, squatting next to the dead creature farthest from everything else. In death, the things are less than half their original size, as if they’ve wilted. With a grunt he flips the body, pulling out his throwing knives then quickly glancing at its face. There’s charred eyes, black fluid running out of the mouth and nose. Sam instinctively presses a wrist to his upper lip.

Fresh blood stands out on his pale skin.

He wipes it off and sniffs. Whatever happened at the graveyard is happening again, but he has no time to look for answers, let alone ask questions.

Sam flips the body back over and drags it next to the other two creatures. His eyes pore over the three monsters. “I’ve never seen these before.”

“Me neither. They’re fucking ugly, though. Like something out of a nightmare” The languid smile slides off of Dean’s face, eyes losing a little bit of their fog. Still, he laughs. “Like that damn bunny.”

Sam looks down at his chest. The stuffed animal is right where he left it, completely intact. It’s face is splattered with blood. Sam looks back up.

“Hand me the journal?”

Dean leans back and snags Sam’s rucksack, rummaging through one of the pockets for John’s journal. He hands it to Sam, hands unusually clumsy.

Sam is tempted to ask Dean what’s going on. It could just be shock, but it doesn’t seem likely. He figures, for now, it’ll be better just to watch. If Dean can keep his secrets, then so can Sam.

He sits down and opens the journal, a pencil sliding into his lap. First, he sketches the creature on a blank page, then writes down observations, occasionally glancing at the pile of corpses. They look like bastardized vultures mixed with...god knows what else. The sketch is crudely made and doesn’t provide much detail beyond what they’ve both just experienced, but it’ll be useful when they try to find out what these things even are.

“Ok.” Sam snaps the book shut. “Now pass me your lighter,”

Dean’s face gets defensive. “The hell you want my zippo for?”

“We might as well burn the bodies here. No one walks on the bridge anymore, and I don’t wanna drag them all the way to the river.”

Dean considers, then flicks on his lighter, placing it under one of the creature’s wings. With the wind and falling snow, it takes a little bit to get the fire going but once it catches, it doesn’t stop. Dean stares at the lapping flames.

Sam looks at his brother, unfamiliar with his mesmerization. The fire crackles and sparks, making them both jump backward.

“Alright,” Sam picks up everything of theirs that wasn’t crushed or thrown down onto the car lanes during the fight, then pulls Dean away from the increasingly large fire. “Let's get out of here.”

**-x-**

As they trek back home, Sam sees the thin trail of smoke rising from the Brooklyn Bridge. For a second, the smoke looks opaquely black, like charcoal smeared against the sky.

He blinks, but the smoke stays the same.

_Are you..._

_Are you... seeing?_

Sam feels dizzy, his heart thumping too fast. He looks down at his palm, and when he looks up, the smoke is grey again.

“Who are you?” He whispers.

No one answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there’s a lot of like stuffing things into jackets and coats and whatnot?? idk id like to think the winchester’s clothes have endless compratments for all their knives and knick knacks


	3. of questions and trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something about his brother is different. Dean feels it, but he can’t pinpoint anything specific. His Carhartt? It’s no dirtier than usual. The bruises running along his hairline? No, the bruises are an unfortunate constant associated with their line of work. His hair? It’s getting longer, running past his collar bones. He’s started tying it up on hunts. 
> 
> But no, it’s none of that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is so late but i hope u enjoy anyway

**1.**

Sam scrunches his nose against the cold, only nibbles at his food despite how loud his stomach is growling. “I probably won’t come back for a while. Day after tomorrow, maybe.” 

“Ok.” Dean puts on a good show of thoroughly enjoying his hot dog whilst simultaneously observing Sam. Anytime there’s food involved Dean’s never eyes _or_ ears, so it works as a good cover.

Something about his brother is different. Dean feels it, but he can’t pinpoint anything specific. His Carhartt? It’s no dirtier than usual. The bruises running along his hairline? No, the bruises are an unfortunate constant associated with their line of work. His hair? It’s getting longer, running past his collar bones. He’s started tying it up on hunts. 

But no, it’s none of that. 

“Do you know what they’re gonna have you doing?” Dean asks through a mouthful of hot dog.

“No. Probably storage, or unloading. The pay’s decent enough to restock the first aid kit.” 

Dean opens his mouth to protest but stops himself before he can get any words out. They’ve had this talk before.

When they were younger, Dean forced Sam to keep any money he’d earned, refusing to use it for their expenses. Then, prices everywhere kept jacking up and never stopped until Dean could no longer afford everything on his own. It’s not like Sam can afford much of anything, and they both know he’d be better off scavenging or trading for anything he’d like, so now they just save cash for the essentials, taking random jobs to keep paying the bills. 

“What’ll you do?” Sam asks. “While I’m gone, I mean.” 

Dean looks out at the water as they walk, eyes catching a glimpse of a breaching whale in the far distance.

He doesn’t quite have an answer.

**2.**

The job at the docks is anything but lengthy. 

Sam helps unload and restock a trawler for the better part of a day, and when the job is done, he’s even given access to a locker room at the docks. There’s running water, so he showers and tries to get the smell of the sea out of his hair and the fish scales out from underneath his fingernails. When he’s done, he sits on a bench, steadying a slightly erratic heartbeat. 

He thinks he might be nervous. 

Sam ties his laces and looks up, peeking through a small window above the lockers. The sun’s been dipping below the horizon, but now it’s fully dark outside. 

Exactly how it should be.

Finding company in the dark is never hard, at least not anymore, and it isn’t even ten minutes before Sam’s found who he’s looking for. He spots three vampires in an alley behind some dumpsters, all of them huddled over a corpse that looks entirely too small to be an adult. With the help of the moonlight, Sam can see thick droplets of blood sliding down their chins. 

He resists the urge to turn around and quickly pulls himself up a rusty ladder on the side of a building, trying to be as quiet as possible. He hauls himself over the edge of the roof, then presses himself flat against the gravel, breath coming so slow it’s like he’s not breathing at all. 

The vampires are sickeningly loud as they feed, rabid hunger making them tear the body apart so that they can salvage every last drop of blood the tiny body has to offer. There are few things he hates more than the sounds of a mauling. Sam presses his forehead against the gravel and sharply inhales. 

Briefly, he remembers. 

Golden earrings, inlaid rubies, diamonds laid on collar bones, glittering against the inky skyline. Laughs like heavy church bells, the clinking of expensive china and silverware. The sharp edge of a perfectly manicured nail as it trailed along his jaw. Wine glasses full of blood. His brother’s skin, grey and paper-thin. Well-kept leather, black satin heels, the small whimpers of someone trying to stop themselves from crying. Opalescent white fangs. 

Sam snaps himself out of the reverie when he hears another rip, a chunk of muscle being pulled off bone. The vampires sit still for a minute, collecting themselves. They’d always been so much more sentient than the other roaming monsters, but now Sam only hears feral animals. Slowly, he pushes himself onto his elbows then looks over the edge of the roof, one palm flat against the ledge, ragged fingernails digging into the concrete in anticipation. 

He watches as the vampires pick themselves up and waits for the voice to call his name. 

**-x-**

Sam grunts as he heaves the body into a dumpster, grabbing it by the collar so he can see its face. The vampire’s eyes are charred, skin sticky with black blood. He feels it then, the way his own blood clings to his upper lip, the low and incessant whining in his ears. 

At least he didn’t pass out this time.

Sam lets the body drop. He wipes at his face with an already dirtied sleeve and heads off into the night, hands shaking with the promise of something he doesn’t understand. 

Sam finds an abandoned warehouse on the docks to fall asleep in, some deep dark corner where he can fold himself up until he’s practically invisible. He presses his back to the wall, all sharp angles and bones digging into cold concrete. One of his hands is wrapped around the handle of his stiletto, tip facing the ground. As he closes his eyes, he tries to not think about how if he died no one would ever find his corpse. Just like Jess. 

He breathes in. 

Breathes out. 

**3.**

In New York City, the trees always seem to talk. 

Dean weaves through the forest with a confidence and calm that’s usually faked, all of it an act put on for an empty theatre. Sam knows Dean too well to ever believe any of his bravado, but Dean always does it anyway. At this point, it’s just become second nature. 

In Central Park, there is no second nature. 

There’s just Dean. 

No sane person ever steps foot in the park anymore, and if they do it’s always with a death wish. The entire place has become overgrown at such an eerily alarming rate, that if getting lost doesn’t scare you, then the possibility of bumping into something will. 

All Dean can hear now is the gentle creaking of the trees, the occasional scuttle of an animal, or the wind running through the leaves. He knows the Park like the back of his hand, which makes it the perfect place to just...think. In the weeks since he started taking Saturn’s drug, he’s barely had to think at all, mind completely consumed by things that don’t quite belong to the material world. 

As he clambers over massive fallen trees and picks his way across crumbling bridges, he feels it again. Every time he gets sober, the feeling starts to tug at him. Hidden underneath the itch to get high, sulking behind quiet aches and pains, it waits. 

A warning. 

Suddenly the trees shake violently with the wind, but this time Dean feels no gust of cold air. He stops in his tracks and stays perfectly still, eyes taking in everything within his field of vision. The sound of heavy footsteps breaks the silence. It’s too loud to be a black bear, the steps too unfamiliar for it to be anything but a predator of the unnatural kind. 

Dean pulls out his phone and dials the only number that he’s ever needed to know. 

**-x-**

Sam wakes up to a neon red sunrise, freezing wind biting at his cheeks. Distantly, he feels his phone buzzing. 

When he tries to uncurl himself, he realizes he can’t move.

Every part of him is frozen. He can’t move anything besides his eyes. His lips feel like they’ve been glued together. He squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them hoping to wake up from some kind of twisted dream, but he’s still unable to move even his toes. The phone stops buzzing then starts up again, and that’s when he starts to panic. In utter and absolute terror, his eyes move around, body trying to follow suit. The only person who can call him is Dean, and besides Sam’s unwarranted phone call the other day, Dean only ever calls when it’s an emergency. 

Dean’s in trouble and Sam can’t fucking move. 

He tries again and again and _again_ but nothing gives. The phone stops buzzing all together, and Sam feels wetness sliding down the sides of his face, throat burning with frustration. He looks down to try and see where his phone is, eyes scanning the area around him when suddenly they catch on a movement. In the light of the morning, he sees a shadow. Pitch black, as if someone’s painted on the ground, but it moves along with his eyes. 

_Samuel...Samuel...Slow down..._

Almost as if he’s not in control of himself, Sam sucks in a breath through his nose, eyes closing. His body seems to relax but his heart is racing. No longer with panic, no, but now with a painful eagerness. 

He wants to understand.

_Now...Try to speak..._

He does. Slowly, he opens his mouth, slides his tongue against his teeth. “Are you real?” 

_...Yes...Are you?..._

Sam opens his eyes again, trains them on the shadow. It’s no longer moving, and now it just feels like someone is staring at him. He ignores the question. 

“You’re...you’re doing this to me. You helped me kill the thing on the bridge, and then the vampire...” His mind runs through all the possibilities of what the hell is happening, but he comes up completely short. 

... _No_ ... _You’re helping me…Shame, that you let the rest of the nest flee…_

“Who are you? What do you-” 

A laugh cuts him off, something that sounds like wind chimes during a thunderstorm. The voice begins to sound vaguely female. 

_...Soon...Soon, Samuel…_

“No, no, no come back, _please_ -” 

But the voice is gone. 

Eventually, he starts regaining the feeling in his fingers, then his arms, then his whole body. As if a switch’s been clicked, he remembers Dean’s call and frantically digs into his coat for his phone. His hands shake as he dials Dean, and he knows it’s not from the cold. 

While the line rings, Sam thinks of what he’s going to say. He’s never had to rationalize the existence of monsters, they’ve always just _been_. He can barely explain what just happened to him, let alone try to explain it to Dean. Dean, who’s always been a seeing-is-believing kind of person. 

“Sammy?” 

Sam lets out a sigh of relief. Dean’s voice sounds hurried and quiet, but otherwise normal. 

“What’s up? Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, fine. Listen, I think I might need some backup on this one.” Dean pauses, then lowers his voice. “I think it’s the things again. From the bridge. I’m hiding right now, but-”

Sam hears a loud crash from Dean’s end then a mumbled _“Fuck_ ”. 

Sam picks up his pace until he’s running in the direction of the subway. “Where are you?” 

**4.**

“You’re such an idiot. That was very much _not_ the thing we saw on the bridge.” Sam says. “Only you of all people could run into a 12 foot tall murder rabbit. With antlers, for christ’s sake.” 

Dean blinks, hands on his knees as he sucks in desperate breaths. 

Sam leans against the tree opposite to Dean and squeezes his eyes shut. 

Dean quickly peeks around the tree and is glad to see that they’re alone. There is a path of destruction behind them, fallen trees littering the forest floor, but no sign of the culprit. 

When Dean feels like he can finally control his breathing again he stands up straight. “Hey, at least you saw it. If I’d have gone home and told you you’d never have believed me. C’mon, I know my way out of here.” 

Sam seems to stiffen, but he rolls his eyes and starts following Dean. 

On their way through the park, they come across three different holes in the ground, all of them the size of a small pond. 

“So this is where the fucker disappeared into.” Dean snarls. 

“I think I know what it was.” Sam looks down one of the massive holes, then steps back. “A Jackalope. John mentioned it once.” 

“Well, goddamn. You’re right.” Dean laughs, but then his face contorts. “Back when-”

“When we were driving up here from Kansas. Right after mom died.” Sam’s gaze is uncomfortably distant. “He mentioned the jackalopes when we crossed into Pennsylvania.” 

Dean swallows and looks away, the mood suddenly morbid. His skin is starting to itch, toes going numb from the cold. His head is swimming and the feeling that something’s wrong is starting to get more and more persistent. Even though a thick canopy of leaves covers most of the sky, when he looks up Dean can still see the darkening clouds. 

“They’re guardians of the forest,” Sam says. “It wasn’t chasing after us, it was chasing after whatever it caught. Some other monster probably. Hey, why were you here in the first place?” 

Despite the cold, Dean’s starting to sweat. Sam’s question is innocent in nature, but Dean feels like he’s being accused of something. 

“Just, you know... Clearing my head.” 

“Wow, Dean Winchester has to clear his head? From what? I can’t imagine anything going on up there.” Sam laughs. 

It’s meant to be a joke, but Dean doesn’t even smile. Normally he’d respond with some even dumber insult, but the tugging feeling in his head will not go away. It feels like his attention is being pulled elsewhere, but he has no idea what the hell he’s supposed to be focusing on. It crosses his mind that it’s just paranoia and that it could be a side effect of the drug, or a side effect of having to run for his life every other day. If that’s so, then it’s a bit fucking delayed. 

Dean clears his throat and shoves his hands into his coat pockets. “Earlier, over the phone. You said you wanted to tell me something.” 

“Oh.” Sam deflates even more. “Yeah, I- Maybe now isn’t the best time.” 

“We almost just died, and it’s only noon. We'll probably almost just die again in the evening.” Dean says it to try and lighten the mood but it hits a little bit too close to home. “You should just tell me now.” 

Sam takes a long step and catches up to Dean so they’re walking side-by-side. “Or, maybe we could clear the schedule and move the almost dying up to the afternoon. Then I can tell you.”

Dean meets grey eyes. 

He’s so used to seeing exhaustion and thinly-veiled sadness that when he catches Sam’s expression he’s caught completely off-guard. Dean sees strange excitement in those eyes, and he fails to understand.

But he thinks he wants to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao i swear this is all going somewhere. next chapter is where things rlly start picking up. 
> 
> listen,, i think it's pretty obvious that I don't know anything about finance or economics or inflation or how the hell money would function in a slowly crumbling world so just like suspend ur disbelief pls xx


	4. of blood and veins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Like I said,” Sam’s voice is raw. “It’s not pretty.”
> 
> They both look up just in time for the wailing to start. 
> 
> “Yeah,” Dean can’t keep the trouble out of his voice as he hauls his little brother up and hands him a dirty bandana. “Nothing ever is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi cuties heres the new chap. hope u enjoy and have a good week,,
> 
> i’ve tried to make it pretty clear that this fic has less elements of the show and more so random made-up elements and things plucked from general world mythology lmao but i’m not gonna lie i havent seen any episodes of the show (new or old) in over a year maybe even two if we’re stretching it, so if there’s incorrect facts/mythology i’m sorry. i try to check the wiki for the monsters that i’m not putting my own spin on, but even then the information isn’t as factual it would be as if i watched the show so just FYI I guess

**1.**

They exit the park by Lincoln Square, a rusty metal fence blocking their exit. 

Sam shields his face against the sun as he watches Dean take a running start, then scramble up and over the fence.

He finds it amusing, that you can live with a person for your entire life and still not know everything about them. If this whole morning ordeal hadn’t happened, Sam never would’ve known that Dean came to Central Park.

Once he’s on the other side, Dean looks down at his leg, then up at the hem of his pants where it clings to the top of the fence. “Shit.”

Sam follows suit, taking a running start then easily climbing up and swinging himself over the fence. He lands in a crouch then straightens up, stifling his laughter when he sees Dean’s scowl.

He looks up and down the street, watching the very occasional car drive by.

“I’ll go West, you go East. If you find anything, call me.” Sam says. “Don’t pass a five-block radius. And _don’t_ kill whatever you find. Incapacitate it if you have to, but just don’t kill it.”

Dean raises an eyebrow but doesn’t protest. “Does the winner get anything?”

Sam stares at his brother in disbelief then shakes his head. “Just go already.”

Dean holds his hands up in surrender then jogs off in the opposite direction, ripped pants flapping in the wind.

**-x-**

Sam doesn’t make it very far before a sense of dread starts crawling its way up his throat. He ignores it and keeps running, zipping his jacket up against the winter chill. Even though the sun’s out, his teeth still click together.

Then there comes the darkness. It’s as if something big has flown by and blocked out the sun, but when Sam looks up at the sky there’s nothing. The huge shadow quickly passes and when Sam looks back towards the buildings in front of him, he sees it. Diving between buildings, big, black, and terrifying.

The thing from the bridge.

Sam starts sprinting in its direction.

He runs through alleys and zig zags his way through West End Avenue, shoving past pedestrians and barreling through the stream of people coming up from the subway. For a second he thinks he’s lost sight of the creature, but then he hears its horrible, human-like screeching behind him. He whips around amidst a throng of people and watches as it swoops down from the skyline.

Sam pushes his way out of the crowd and starts running again, turning a sharp corner to throw the creature off. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s running across the street and ducking into an old parking garage, the P on the side of the building barely hanging on to the brick.

He hears it before he sees it, the creature diving in after him, wings slamming into cement pillars and abandoned vehicles, it’s screeching loud enough that it makes Sam feel like his eardrums are going to burst. He bolts to the nearest stairwell, slamming the door shut behind him. He takes in big lungfuls of air and equips himself with all his knives, quickly looking out the door’s tiny window.

The monster’s stopped.

It sits on its haunches in the middle of the garage, head cocking and turning, white eyes unseeing. Even from behind the door, Sam can hear the guttural clicking noises it makes.

It sounds as if it’s trying to communicate.

Desperately, Sam looks around at the debris in the stairwell, eyes settling on a pile of bricks. He picks one up with a grunt and waits for the right opportunity. When the creature isn’t facing Sam at all, he throws the door open then lobs the brick towards it with all the force he can muster.

It strikes the creature hard, giving Sam enough time to assault it with a few knives while it’s dazed. He hits it with the brick once again for good measure, then climbs on top of it, digging his knees down onto the creature’s wings. It’s barely moving, but when Sam presses a palm to its side he still feels a slow pulsing.

Good.

He pulls out his phone and calls Dean, his other hand hovering over the bloodied brick just in case.

“Found one between 70th and 66th. In an old parking garage.”

Dean sounds out of breath from running. “Good, I’m close by,”

“You were supposed to go East, dumbass.”

“Fuck off, I’m almost there.” Dean pauses as if deciding in which direction to go. “Is it dead?”

Then, so silent that Sam barely catches it he hears.

_What...are you waiting for..._

“...No, it’s not.” Sam ignores the voice, then presses his knee down harder when it starts moving again.“But it will be.”

The voice remains silent, and in a comically short amount of time, Sam sees Dean jogging into the parking garage, lit cigarette between his teeth. Dumbass.

Sam rolls his eyes, waving him over. The creature’s range of motion is limited, but Sam finds the way its head seems to move between Sam and Dean vaguely concerning.

“Over here,” Sam calls him over then stands up, brick in his hand at the ready. He hands it to Dean then quickly stands up, crouching in front of the monster’s face. “Don’t get scared, ok? It’s kind of messed up.”

Dean shrugs noncommittally, but Sam catches the edge of curiosity in his eyes.

Sam focuses on the creature’s empty eyes, palm parallel to the ground, bony fingers bent at the knuckle. Like the flick of a powerful but unstable switch, the creature begins to die. It spasms as black blood leaks out of its orifices, eyes turning black then crackling like broken charcoal.

The aftershock almost knocks Sam off his feet.

He stumbles backward, hands flying up to his ears as the high-pitched whining starts again. Through blurry vision, he sees Dean standing next to the monster, hands slack at his sides, lips parted, lit cigarette fluttering to the ground. For a few unbelievably painful seconds, he thinks his head might explode as the whining gets louder and louder, crescendoing until it eventually just stops.

_Do better...I need...better_

Like the flick of a powerful but unstable switch, Sam realizes he has no idea what kind of forces he’s playing with.

**-x-**

“What the _fuck_ did you just do?”

Sam peeks his face out from behind his hands. He looks decidedly green. “I can explain.”

“Yeah,” Dean laughs, because what other kind of emotion is he supposed to express when his little brother just did _that_. “Yeah. Yeah, you fucking better because what the fuck?”

Before Sam can answer, Dean hears a skidding noise as a car swerves into the garage, drifting to an abrupt halt.

Dean yanks Sam back by his jacket, pulling them both behind an SUV that no longer has wheels. He yanks so hard that he slams onto his ass and Sam knocks back into him. Before Sam can say anything,

Dean aggressively throws one arm around Sam’s chest then slaps a hand over his mouth with the other.

He peers past the SUV to look at the car parked in the middle of the garage. The driver and passenger doors have both been flung open, and Dean can see a woman dragging someone out of the seat and onto the ground. She starts doing CPR on the motionless person, yelling out incoherent things. Somehow, even from where they’re sprawled, Dean can tell. He’s seen it too many times not to know. There’s no saving whoever she’s with.

“Stupid.” He mumbles, but it’s mostly out of pity.

He feels something wet on his palm, then Sam’s hands wrenching at his wrists, nails digging painfully into his skin.

“Ow, what the fuck-” Dean immediately lets go, then scrambles back just as Sam starts vomiting onto the asphalt. It doesn’t last very long, but Dean holds Sam’s hood out of the way until he’s done, giving him space to catch his breath afterward.

“You’re fucking disgusting, you know that?” Dean whispers, giving Sam a soft slap on the back.

“Like I said,” Sam’s voice is raw. “It’s not pretty.”

They both look up just in time for the wailing to start.

“Yeah,” Dean can’t keep the trouble out of his voice as he hauls his little brother up and hands him a dirty bandana. “Nothing ever is.”

**-x-**

The subway car sways gently as it takes them home.

Dean flicks his eyes towards Sam, sees his eyes are closed, head leaned back against the seat, skin mottled from the cold.

“Do you remember Star Wars?”

“No.”

“The Bible, perhaps?”

“Shut up.”

“Does divine intervention ring a bell? God Almighty?”

“Keep talking and I _assure_ you, you’ll see him before I ever do.”

**2.**

Dean notices the red powder a little bit too late, eyes taking their time to adjust to the darkness of the exhibit. It’s dusted all over the front of his sweatshirt and it’s even transferred onto his jacket. He’ll have to go back to using the needles if he keeps being this messy.

Now he’s found the perfect balance, it’s hard to go without.

Dulled enough that he really doesn’t have to process what he’s doing or why, and instead can just... _do_ it. It’s all muscle memory anyway, and Sam’s taken to leading them on strange and dangerous hunts that Dean’s very sure he doesn’t want to be sober for.

He still tries higher doses sometimes, but only ever under the cover of night, where Sam can’t see the way he completely loses touch with reality.

Now he takes everything that’s happening with the collected cool of someone he might have only ever been.

Across the empty exhibit, Sam continues his staring match with absolutely no one. He sits crumpled against a downed polar bear, eyes trained on the darkness outside of the dilapidated exhibit.

They’re both silent, bodies completely still as they listen for the footsteps of a Djinn.

Sam raises a finger to his lips, slowly crawling towards the edge of the exhibit. Dean hears it then, the click of shoes on the museum floor.

“Go.” Sam hisses.

Dean blinks. “Are you _insane_?”

“Trust me, you’ll be fine. Go.”

Dean scowls, but he’s never been very good with planning joint attacks.

As soon as he launches out of the exhibit he sees the Djinn stop dead in its tracks, then start sprinting. It’s slow for a Djinn, but still faster than Dean. He puts everything he has into chasing after the stupid monster but finds he doesn’t have to do much work when the Djinn trips over a penguin and goes flying to the ground. Dean goes skidding to the ground after it, then scrambles up on top of it, heels digging into its wrists.

The Djinn growls, eyes wild as it looks around the empty museum.

“I don’t know what you were hoping for. You can’t hurt anyone if no one’s never around.” Dean hisses, his forearm pressed down on its chest.

Suddenly a tattooed hand swipes at his face, and he fails to react in time. As if time’s been slowed, he feels the skin on his cheek rip open, then watches as a drop of blood slowly drips down onto the Djinn’s lips.

It licks its lips, eyes locked onto Dean’s.

“I’m just hungry.” The Djinn cocks its head, grinning. “Aren’t you?”

Dean gets it then.

“Always.” He cracks a smile and watches as the Djinn’s disappears. “ _Sam_!”

Dean delivers a heavy punch right to the Djinn’s face, then rolls off as Sam bursts out from the exhibit. He lays there for a few seconds staring up at the giant whale hanging from the ceiling, but when he doesn’t hear anyone dying he quickly sits up.

Sam’s hoisted up the Djinn by the collar and his mouth is moving, but Dean can’t hear what he’s saying. His face contorts, then for the third time that week Dean sees Sam do the impossible.

He stops picking at his teeth with his tanto, eyes glued to the now burned out corpse on the floor. “The hell was that Gandalf?”

“Sorry.” Sam rocks back onto his haunches, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. There’s blood smeared on his upper lip. That’s becoming a trend.

“When are you going to explain this to me?” Dean stands up and kicks at the dead Djinn. “If _you_ don’t get it, then I’m missing the fucking point completely.”

“Christ, you are such a pain.” Sam groans. “I told you everything I know, detail by tiny little detail. Lay off, okay?”

“Ashhole.” Dean sits back down, resting his head against a broken dolphin. “You coulda told me the Djinn wasn’t the type to feed on blood. Not like I would’ve gotten scared.”

“Yeah, and it would have given away our hiding spot and then last night’s stake out wouldn’t have been for nothing. I told you to trust me.”

For some reason, Dean feels hard-pressed to believe him. “Well I did, didn’t I? Hey, let’s stay here a little longer.”

Sam wipes at his nose. “They’ll think we’ve been killed if we take any longer.”

“Does it matter? Stop being such a stickler, Sam. We’ve got exclusive access to the National Museum of History and you wanna leave? You were such a nerd when we were kids, you woulda loved this kinda shit.”

“You just wanna stare at the whale, don't you? Besides, this place is trashed.”Sam looks pissed, but Dean doesn’t feel any heat behind his words.

“What, you got anything better to do? We’re gonna go home and you’re just gonna go sleep again.”

“Whatever,” Sam sighs, leaning back against a tuna fish. Sure enough, when Dean looks back at him his eyes are closed. Dean feels like he should be worried, but who is he to deny Sam some well-deserved rest.

He looks up at the belly of the whale, remembers the one he saw breaching a few weeks back. It feels like an eternity ago. The whale is positioned in a way that makes it look like it’s about to dive deep into the ocean, breath held for the long way down. It sounds ideal.

Swimming forever, lost in an eternal blue.

**-x-**

“Thank you so much,” The curator gushes, hands clasped together. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone so grateful. “Oh! The goods you were promised,” He reaches down and hands Sam two stuffed bags.

The curator eyes Dean’s puffy cheek, looks at the dried blood on Sam’s face. “Was everything...ok?”

Sam and Dean quickly exchange slightly panicked glances.

“It all went according to plan. Sorry we took so long,” Dean swipes some powder from off his jacket, shows it off. “Homemade poison. The body’s in a dumpster out back.”

The curator nods nervously but then smiles as he says goodbye, eyes crinkling at the corners.

As they walk home, Sam raises an eyebrow. “Convenient excuse. What’s the powder?”

Dean sizes Sam up out of the corner of his eye, deciding which lie is more convenient. Instead, he lights up a cigarette and asks his own question.

“Why’d you hesitate?” He takes a long drag. “You could have killed the Djinn in two seconds, just like every other Eyeless you’ve been KOing, but you hesitated.”

Sam won’t meet his eyes. Dean’s obviously missing something.

“I don’t know. I’m tired. Aren’t you?” Sam runs a hand through greasy hair. “Ever since the bridge, it feels like we’ve been hunting every damn day.” Then quieter, as if he’s not even talking to Dean, “Why does it feel like we’re on borrowed time?”

Dean blinks, caught up in the question. He understands Sam’s exhaustion, has felt it before, but now he just feels okay. If anything it feels unfair, to be so relaxed all the time while Sam’s dealing with uncharted territory. He’s tempted to tell Sam that it’s usually Sam who’s finding the hunts, Sam who’s suggesting they go out at crazy hours of the night to look for more of the Eyeless, and Dean’s simply the one following along. He also can’t quite admit why things have progressively felt less and less...important.

Suddenly his attention is drawn away by a feeling of wetness on his skin.

“Hey-” Dean tilts his head back. “It’s snowing. Maybe we’ll get a white Christmas”

Sam follows suit, looking up into the grey clouds.

Dean holds up a hand, reaching out as the tiny flakes land on his palm. He brings his hand up to his face, looks at the infinite details of the snowflake. “It’s beautiful,” He murmurs.

Sam looks away, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“It’s cold.”

**3.**

Sam points on the map spread over the counter. “Here, over on 57th, where they found all the people tied up-”

A drop of blood splatters onto the map.

“Hey,” Dean turns his head slowly, watches as Sam presses the heel of his hand to his nose in an attempt to staunch the blood flow. “You fucked up 38th.”

Sam heads to the sink and turns on the water, shoulder blades sticking out of his back as blood drips down into the sink.

Dean dabs at the map with the hem of his shirt, trying to clean up the street. It’s the only map they have left that hasn’t been ruined in a hunting-related incident. “Is this from the…” He gestures vaguely at his face, still unsure of what Sam really does.

Sam turns off the water and heads back to the table, towel in hand. “No. Just the cold.”

Dean laughs. “You are such a shitty liar.”

“Look who’s talking.” Sam snaps, blood starting to drip out of his nose again.

Well. This is now how Dean expected their Saturday to go. He might as well come out with it.

“Cut the shit, Sam. You’re hiding something from me.”

“I didn’t _choose_ whatever’s happening to me. How am I the one in the wrong here?”

“So you admit it,”

“I can suddenly kill people like this, and all you do to help is- Jesus Christ.” Sam grabs more paper towels and presses them to his face as the blood keeps pouring out. “Out of all the fucking people-”

Dean freezes. “Out of all the fucking people _what_?” 

“Nothing.” Sam hisses, tilting his head back.

“No, say it,” Dean’s voice cracks.

Sam stares at Dean then, eyes blazing with an aggression that’s never been pointed at him.

“Out of all the people that have been in and out of our life,” Sam spits, “I get stuck with _you_.” Then, an infinite, apologetic pause. “I know you’re using again.”

Dean has no idea what to say to that.

Sam looks down at the table, and Dean follows his eyeline.

His sleeves are halfway up his arms.

Later, the track marks will become not quite painful memories of years passed, they’ll become stories to be told while drinking a warm, expired, beer. For now, they’ll be bruised arms, round little scabs where needles slid into the vein. Evidence of everything he’s never told Sam.

“At the museum I made you run after a Djinn,” Sam says coldly. “If you hadn’t been on anything, your knee would have given out, and codeine doesn’t make you act how you’ve been acting.” 

Dean’s face contorts. “You fucking played me.”

“Life is hard enough as it is. Why do you always have to make things harder?” Sam speaks as if he’s talking to a child.

It makes Dean’s blood boil. “Hypocrite.”

“Stop using and I’ll tell you the truth.” Sam doesn’t bother with the paper towels anymore. “The whole truth.”

For a few seconds, Dean says nothing, eyes on how abnormally purple his veins are looking. He doesn’t know who’s in the wrong, but he doesn’t think either of them are right.

“Ok.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next two chapters are an emotional rollercoaster but like u signed up for this

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from "the princess bride"  
> on tumblr @koedeza


End file.
